You’ve heard them. You’ve seen them too,
those singers, head down and jaws agape,
a universe of white and pink,
crooning to a microphone
tightly held in both their hands.
She’s like them when she takes my mic
– not cool, not metallic, but hard
and smooth nonetheless, bulbous at the end,
plugged into every nerve, every longing
of both my body and my mind.
Her hair brushes my skin just above the pubes.
Right below the bulge of navel
I watch her play the scales, the notes of music
with spittle and tongue, pressure and lip,
breath and suction. I feel the tempo struck
by the fall and rise of her dear, sweet mouth
upon me. I can hear the rich lyrics
of her hearty voice, her fleshly gorge,
the air through her nostrils streaming
as she hums, as she warbles and trills,
chirps and twitters, lilts and sings
about the tumescent business of me.
The crescendo near, she lets my mic go,
passes above me like a tigress alla caccia,
turns about and sits to play
her randy fugue upon my snout,
while again she pans and pipes, plunks and thrums,
fiddles and diddles, twangs and strums,
picks and plucks my single, wet and swollen cord.
Oh, how my mouth and nose swill her nectar!
My tongue, a bow fast upon her viol,
that rosy cleft with but one fret!
Oh my fluid obbligato!
Oh her coda’s long vibrato!
Three beats to the bar we two
sforzando e con brio!
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© Gregory V Driscoll 2015